Ruminations
by LadyScribe
Summary: Brief glimpses into the thoughts and lives of the characters of LotR: Merry, Éowyn, Gimli, and Legolas. Rating varies by slightly by chapter.
1. Merry

Welcome! This will be a series of short drabble-type chapters focusing in turn on different characters in the LotR universe. I hope you enjoy them.

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><p><em>Merry<em>

The small veins reminded him of roads and rivers. At home, Merry knew every path and pass, where to turn and where to walk on. In his mind, he could unfurl a map etched with lines as clear as the ones on the leaf he held in his hand. Left at this stump, straight beyond that hill, a mile past field with stalks of corn taller than he was. He enjoyed the knowledge earned by wearing down walking sticks and callousing his heels, and the satisfaction of knowing that no matter how many pints he'd had, his feet could guide him home with no more trouble than the occasional stumble.

He pressed his thumb down gently, feeling the dry thing crackle and break into powdery flakes. No road he had ever known stretched here, and the foreign rocks and trees offered him no advice. For all of his adventuring, Merry had never intended to stray this far. Merry rolled onto his back quietly, doing his best not to disturb the sleeping dwarf at his side or the wizard keeping watch. Before he closed his eyes, he silently prayed that if he died on Frodo's quest, it would be in a place where his feet could have found their way home.


	2. Éowyn

_Éowyn_

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><p>When he touched her, the poison of his words seem to seep beneath her skin, raising the hair on her arms and turning her flesh clammy and cold. When he spoke in her ear, taking liberties that no honest man of Rohan would dare, it seemed that his oily touch was sliding over her, making her unclean. The want in his watery eyes as they traveled over her form would have made a weaker woman quake, but Éowyn would not give him the satisfaction of believing that he had power over her. He was beneath her in every way. He would always be nothing but a squirming worm at her feet-all she had to do was wait until she could stamp him out with a brutal twist of her heel.<p>

_I am a daughter of kings._

All of these things she knew, and each of these things she reminded herself when she felt his breath stir her hair or his hand ghosting an inch above the skin on her face. When her hands trembled at the sound of his robes sliding over the stones of Meduseld, when she gripped her dagger in the dead of the night thinking she heard his steps beside her bed, she remembered. She would outlast him, she would evade him, and she would deny him as long as she drew breath.

It was only when Éomer was banished that she became truly afraid.

_I am a daughter of kings._


	3. Gimli

Thank you to my reviewer! It's nice to know that at least one person is enjoying this. I hope I don't disappoint.

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><p>There were times when Gimli thought upon the topic of women. Gimli was no longer the young Dwarf he had once been, but was for all intents and purposes still well within the prime of his life. He supposed when times had been more peaceful, it had never crossed his fancy to take a wife. There was never a pressing urge, despite the scarcity of women in his race, to attach himself thus; he was a Dwarf with lofty standards and an especially stubborn nature, and refused to even consider the notion when an exemplary female had yet to show herself.<p>

Yet not beyond his notice when the Lady Éowyn, graceful and proud, looked at Aragorn with shining eyes. Nor when the pink-cheeked maids dropped their milk pails, their hands suddenly clumsy when the Elf passed them with a courteous nod on his turns about the village. Gimli simply kept his observations to himself, reflecting quietly on the romantic business of mortal women. It was the poor, rough maidens in their homespun frocks that captured him the most. He could pick them out more easily now than he perhaps could have in another time; he could sift through the lusty, the curious, and the awe-struck to find those with something else in their eyes.

If they had only asked, he would have been able to offer his comfort by telling them of the virtue of idolization, the honor in devotion, and strength in reverence. With his hand over his heart he wished them peace, cradling the coiled strands that had given him his.


	4. Legolas

I know I said Gandalf would come next, but I'm still not satisfied with what I have of it so far-Legolas it is, then. This one feels a bit different than the others, but it could just be the writer's block cramping my style. Anyway...enjoy!

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><p>Legolas had never spared much thought for the trappings of royalty. He knew well enough that he was, by blood, royal. It was the same as knowing upon which shelf a rarely-used text lay; unthought-of and half-forgotten until its contents were required for a most specific purpose, then left again to gather a light film of dust.<p>

Royal blood held less significance to Elves than to Men. Thranduil was the only of his kind to claim the title of King, but Legolas was rarely, if ever, called Prince. His father, Valar protect him, would in all likelihood not leave an untimely emptied throne. Thranduil was a practical Elf though, and valued preparedness. He took it upon himself to make certain that his young son learned the craft of kings even without the expectation of becoming one. Legolas, for his part, took it upon himself to make sure that he learned well. Legolas, like his father, was nothing if not thorough. Nonetheless, it did not take him long to divine that his happiness would not lie in waiting for an empty title.

Looking into the morning mist still settled over Rivendell, he possessions on his back and waiting for the other eight, he is grateful. He can counsel, he can lead, and he can rule, yes. But he can also track, fight, and kill. If he could not rule the home he loved, he reasoned, he would defend it. As the years passed, Legolas the Prince became Legolas the Warrior. Now, among his own kind, he is praised for his battles rather than his blood. And he is glad for it. The Fellowship does not need a prince, it needs a warrior. He will fulfill his duty, the only one his long life has thus far required of him. When this long journey is over, perhaps it will not still be so. Death is not his only craft.


End file.
